Geshe Lhundup produced a satchel of tools. From it he extracted a short, broad-bladed knife as well as a box of matches and a candle. We watched in silent anticipation as he lit the candle and heated the blade over it for a while. Then two of the other lamas held the tube firmly in front of him. Where the hot blade touched the seal, it melted easily. Soon the whole red-brown circle of wax curled away and fell to the floor, revealing a join where one half of the tube slid into the other. Geshe Lhundup inspected this closely, taking the tube in both hands and trying to tug it open—gently at first, then more vigorously.

“Sometimes there is a pressure point,” he noted. He squeezed first the right-hand side near the join, then the left-hand side. After doing this for some time, there was an audible click.

Geshe Lhundup looked up, a glint in his eye. He pulled at the tube from each end. This time, the two halves slid apart to reveal cloth-wrapped pages. Placing them on the table, he lifted the cloth away. As is traditional, the pages were not bound, but held between slim boards of wood that served the purpose of covers. Lifting away the top board, Geshe Lhundup revealed a page covered in Tibetan writing that, while yellowed with age, was still clearly visible.

In the silence of the room, we all heard his sharp intake of breath.

I watched his eyes race across the lines of text. He soon turned the page and continued reading. After a pause, he looked up at the Dalai Lama. “I would need to check this thoroughly, but I think the script may be from the time of the Great Fifth.”

I could feel a charge in the room like an electric current when he said that. The “Great Fifth” was the name given to the Fifth Dalai Lama, who had lived in the 17th century and had unified Tibet. He was revered as both a spiritual and political leader.

“We lost almost all the texts from his time when the Chinese invaded Tibet in 1959,” Geshe Lhundup explained to Lobsang, his eyes alight. “If this turns out to be from that era, it will be a rare jewel. If it contains something new and prophetic . . .”

He seemed lost for words trying to describe that possibility.

Lobsang glowed with happiness. Then, remembering the company he was with, he looked modestly down at the floor.

“We will need to check,” the Dalai Lama told him. “That could take some weeks. In the meantime, let us make sure you have a good place to stay.” Reaching over, he squeezed Lobsang’s arm. “You are part of our community. We will look after you.”

“Thank you,” Lobsang whispered. After a few moments, his gaze moved from His Holiness to me. “Is this Your Holiness’s cat?” he asked respectfully.

The Dalai Lama nodded as he reached down to stroke me.

“They speak of her in Tibet.”

“Really?” His Holiness seemed as surprised as I was by this revelation. “Do they know her in this form, or as Little Sister?”

“HHC,” confirmed Lobsang.

I was astonished by what I had just heard. “Little Sister” was the phrase Yogi Tarchin had used to describe me. Not just once, but several times in the past. And always in conversation with Serena. I had thought it meant something to do with the strong relationship I had with Serena. What His Holiness had just said seemed to suggest broader possibilities.

With the meeting evidently coming to a close, Lobsang reached out for the white scarf on the table and, with the utmost respect, presented it to His Holiness. The Dalai Lama took it from him, closed his eyes, and chanted a praye

r. This imbued the scarf with fresh, auspicious imprints every bit as real as the ornaments embroidered on it. After he’d finished, he reached over and placed the scarf around Lobsang’s neck.

Lobsang looked up at him, eyes bright with tears, not daring to speak.

The Dalai Lama beamed. “Now your scarf has been blessed by two different versions of the Dalai Lama!”

A short while later, the meeting ended and everyone moved to leave the room. Geshe Lhundup carried the metal tube and the precious text it contained inside one of the cloths Lobsang had used as lining. The leather pouch in which the text had remained hidden through the centuries would be archived. Geshe Lhundup placed it back in the box and said he would send a monk to collect it.

As soon as the humans left the room, I hopped onto the table.

There are few things more delightful to a cat than an empty cardboard box. When that cardboard box has inside of it an empty leather pouch of extraordinary antiquity—one quite possibly handled by a previous incarnation of the Dalai Lama—the impulse to get inside it becomes irresistible. As I raised myself up onto my hind legs and sniffed the edge of the box, I didn’t think. I merely acted. A quick leap and in a moment I was inside the pouch, within the box, looking around me.

The smell of ancient leather was one I’d never encountered. It was slightly musty but not decayed; there was also a whiff of incense about it. Was it the hint of sandalwood, or perhaps some Himalayan herbs? There was definitely an otherworldly feeling about being in the pouch, a sensation made all the more powerful by knowing where it came from and what it contained. Which was when it struck me: this would be a wonderful place for a cat to meditate.

I kneaded the leather beneath me for a while before settling down on it. As I did, the effect of my weight pulled the leather down in the box slightly, causing the open flap of the pouch to fold back over its top and creating a tent-like effect. It suddenly became dark, but that only made the sensation all the more mystical. Here I was, concealed in the same covering that had held a secret treasure deep in the mountains of Tibet for hundreds of years. Purring softly, I focused on my breath.

I’m not sure if it was the power of suggestion, dear reader, but my mind seemed amazingly clear. I felt very little agitation. Even despite the Dalai Lama’s extraordinary reference to “Little Sister,” I was able to focus my mind not on speculating what that might mean but on simply breathing in and out with a sense of serene calm. Was this about to be my best meditation session ever?

Apparently not.

It was only some time later when I realized that I must have fallen asleep. As I blinked my eyes in an unfamiliar darkness, it took me a while to recollect where I was—or rather, where I had been.

Because something told me I was no longer in the same place.

Still coming to as I sat up in the box, I pushed the leather flap off with my head and looked around. I could see I was no longer in the meeting room. Someone must have picked the box up and carried it away with me in it after I had nodded off. The only source of light came from a gap beneath a door, but it allowed me to see that shelves and boxes surrounded me. I recognized where I was: the archive room in Namgyal Monastery.

Tags: David Michie The Dalai Lama's Cat Fiction
Source: readsnovelonline.net